I Miss

by Stelios Mormoris

her blurred eyeshadow

blush of dawn as forgiven promise,
the bus ride to work,
passengers jumbled awake at a stop sign askew

the poor student I was,
crumpled cash in the pocket
and drill of being hungry

the smell of matted grass
on the knees of my jeans after praying on the lawn

and the sting of the slap on my palm
to the surge of applause

the day my mother scolded me
in a deep wine–soaked voice
on a humid evening thickened by her lanolin
that I’ll be lucky to get out

staring long into the shot of a shiny new penny
minted the year of my birth
soaring in the eye
of Chagall’s red ceiling swirling

a bird caught in the updraft
of his lyrical farewells,
singing to the shell of my childhood house,
to the circle of brother & sisters,
and the parents I buried who stain the fields —
to the dogs I loved,
who sprout crocus through the snow —
and now as I write on this winter morning,
to the stubble of broken grass
I walk through at a loss

while aqua lights of dotted runways
hum me to sleep
those work–packed years I flew
across longitudes, which too

I miss

and so go on and sing my song, small
as the private litter
of pallid photos I sort through,

living the refrain of kinder days
as my partner and I
settle into lichen–covered wooden chairs
with the need to speak less and less

while scurried leaves and vapors of coffee
have a busy random conversation

and at our feet dogs curl in on themselves
easily, live in the here,
miss whoever walks away

and to our backs the cedar shingles turning gray
are still nothing to miss

yet I still answer the phone in an even voice
and jump at the idea that
on the other end of the unanswered ring
fearful of silence, fearful of death,
it is you.